Page 34 of The Stone Witch of Florence

THIRTY-THREE

A FEAST IN THE NIGHT

July 10th of 1348, City of Florence

L ucia had slept until late afternoon, and woke up cursing herself for her laziness. Her friend was gone and left no note. Lucia did not blame her. She went to the kitchen to find food, but instead her eyes landed on the amethyst and heliodor—left in a little dish on the window ledge after they were last used. Lucia remembered the unfinished conversation at Alle Panche. The smelly man, asking about churches and making people cold. Perhaps if she could find Maria and Lorenzo and get some idea of who this mysterious individual was... Well, it would be a step to putting things right with Ginevra.

Determined to make this evening one of progress, she changed back into Antonella’s old dress, put the heliodor in her pocket and the amethyst in her cheek, and went once again to seek the dubious company of Alle Panche. But when Lucia reached the tavern, out came a dozen or so stumbling persons, Maria and Lorenzo among them.

“Lucia!” said Maria delightedly. “I’m so glad you came back, I wasn’t sure you would after Bertoldo—”

“ Salve , Maria. Never mind him. Where are you going?”

“You must come with us!” said Lorenzo. “Alle Panche has been drunk dry, and we just got word of a party.”

Lucia joined in, linking arms with Maria. She gave a few little tries at bringing the conversation back around to the smelly stranger, but they were walking quickly and speaking and laughing with others in the group so she never got the chance. They ran through many twisted streets, across the river, and somewhere in the Oltre Arno district they stopped short. One of their number said, “This is it,” and pushed through the front door of a palazzo that made Lucia’s home look like a hole in the dirt.

“Whose house is this ?” she asked Lorenzo, looking up in awe at tall ceilings painted blue with golden stars.

“Ahh, well, this is one of those wonderful parties where the host has graciously made themselves absent so the bounty may be enjoyed without need for boring pleasantries.”

“You mean, they’ve left the city, so we’re going to help ourselves?”

“Lucia,” said Lorenzo reproachingly, “we’re all going to die tomorrow so what’s it matter if you drink some rich man’s abandoned wine? C’mon.”

Lucia had to admit he had a point. She decided, for the sake of investigation, she would commit the little sin of joining the party. Another thing added to her tally of prayers and penance.

When they arrived at the second floor dining hall, Lucia was glad she already decided to sin because this party looked very fun. It centered around a massive table, the inlay of ebony and mother-of-pearl barely visible below sweating platters of food that left rings on the marquetry. Somehow, somebody had gotten hold of a pig and the shiny beast was roasting away on an improvised spit in the massive fireplace, which surely had never been used for the dirty task of cooking until this evening. On the table, wheels of soft cheeses wrapped in delicate leaves, plump olives, and platters of crispy partridges with their melty drippings soaking into a bed of yellow onions and ashy branches of rosemary. A gigantic pie topped with a crown of smaller pies, thick brown sauce oozing through vents slashed in the pastry so spiced steam could escape. Rounds of bread, real and puffy, dusted with sugar and stuck with raisins and suet. Boiled eggs dyed pink with beets and yellow with saffron. Bowls of tender, frilly salad leaves dotted with tiny yellow flowers and splashed with vinegar. Trays heaped with long thin strands of macaroni, slippery with butter. Piles of summer oranges, a majolica dish filled with special sweetmeats normally reserved for expectant mothers. And barrels and barrels of wine, being decanted into fine glassware, pewter, silver, even a few of the same shimmering grapevine ceramics she had at home.

Many of the vessels were surreptitiously pocketed by guests after they finished their first cup. Three fellows with flutes of different sizes were tootling along with a tambourine, and a man dressed as a woman sang along sweet as a nightingale. Though dusk was approaching and shutters were closed, the room was ablaze with light thanks to hundreds of candles—enough for a whole year, it seemed, if used prudently (which was not currently the case). The room was as crowded with people as the table was with food, and just like the pig in the fire, the guests were all pleasantly shiny from the warm and fragrant air.

“Who made this food?? Where did the oranges come from?” Lucia asked incredulously, ignoring Lorenzo’s earlier advice to enjoy rather than question.

Maria was more willing to indulge her curiosity. “The cook of this house—she came back after the master fled, and took up with a baker. They make a good pair, don’t they?”

“But it must have taken them days...”

“A week, at least!” said Maria. “But what else is anyone doing? Might as well make a feast, eh? How fortunate to be among the guests. Now, excuse me for a moment while Lorenzo and I go...explore. We won’t be long. Save me one of those eggs, will you? A pink one.”

Lucia nodded and went to help herself to the feast. It was all part of her investigation, she told herself, plucking up a large orange, peeling it with as much ladylike restraint as possible. She broke the skin and a delicate spray of oil burst out of the peel, floating into the air and surrounding her with its agreeable perfume. She pulled a wedge from the juicy globe and popped it into her mouth, transported for a moment to another summer when death was not the topic of every conversation.

She put another orange in her purse for Ginevra, filled the nearest glass with wine, and looked around. Now—how should she approach this feast? Should she start with the macaroni? Would the cheeses be gone if she didn’t take one right away? As she walked toward the platter where they were arranged, she froze; there was the becchino . The same who took away her maid. Not dressed in the stinking rags of his trade, but in a finely embroidered tunic and red turban. He grinned at her. Lucia pretended not to notice, but to her immense horror he came right over.

“And where are you from tonight, eh?” he said, getting close so no others could hear. “Did the invitation extend all the way to the dead parish of Santa Trinita?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, mustering false indignation. “I live in Santa Croce.”

“Haha, sure, and I live in the Garden of Eden. Don’t worry, though, we liars have to look out for another. I’ll keep your secret.”

Lucia turned away only to see another disagreeable figure—the lech Bertoldo, drunk and hassling other women, who, more used to that sort of thing than Lucia, were snubbing him effectively. And though Bertoldo was, to Lucia, ten times more repulsive than the gravedigger, their reunion was a moment she secretly hoped for. For she had invented, in the aftermath of their first unpleasant encounter, a far-fetched plan for revenge. Her tongue played with the amethyst buried under its soft folds. She stared at Bertoldo.

“Who do you watch?” pressed Becchino. “If it’s a ghost, I believe you—the lord of this house is dead, not fled, trust me...”

“Shhh! Go away!” she whispered.

Bertoldo turned from the group of women, and (good for him) remembered Lucia from the tavern. Exactly as she hoped, he lurched forward to continue his overtures. He promptly bumped into the sideboard, which knocked over a bit of crockery that fell and smashed on a flutist’s foot so the music stopped and everybody turned to look at him.

“Aha!” he slurred to a silent room. “I see the lady has not been able to forget me! She followed me all the way across the river. Tell me, darling, have I been in your dreams?”

“Yes. I dreamed that you would shut up and leave me alone.”

The room erupted in laughter, but grew silent quickly to see Bertoldo’s response.

“The only thing I’ll leave you is begging for more.”

“Is that what you want? To please me in bed? Is that what this is all about, then? I’m a married woman. I don’t want to sleep with you. I’m just trying to eat cheese.”

Bertoldo was tripped up by the straightforward questions, but recovered quickly: “Er...yes, of course, I am a gentleman, and it is my privilege to please a lady.” He then made a rude gesture that removed any kindness that may have been accidentally taken from his statement.

With only the slightest bit of pink rising in her cheeks, Lucia played her hand. “Very well, then, what would please me most is for you to accept my challenge of a drinking contest .”

The crowd gasped appropriately.

“Drinking contest???” Bertoldo could barely get the words out, so eager was he to imbue them with derision. “What substance, Small Woman, do you think you can best me at?”

“The wine of the house, of course. Whoever drinks the most and keeps their wits is champion.” She took a deep swallow from the elegant Arabic glass goblet she adopted as her vessel, and stared him straight in the eye the whole time. The partygoers erupted in cheers and whistles.

Bertoldo hesitated a bit. “Er...come now, it wouldn’t be right...”

“If you are too scared to face a small woman , then so much be your shame.” She finished her goblet.

Such were the hisses and yells that Maria and Lorenzo came down, with red faces and mussed hair, from whatever private corner they had found to see what was going on. The musicians added their flutes to the jeers, and Bertoldo had no way to excuse himself from the challenge. “Alright, darling, if that’s your pleasure, then it is mine! And may our granting of each other’s mutual pleasures continue onto soft feather beds.”

“There is not enough wine in Italy. Come, who will pour us our first?”

The feast was pushed to one side of the table and Lucia and Bertoldo sat across from each other. Another of the fine Arabic goblets was conjured from somebody’s reluctant satchel so the rounds could be fairly judged. Maria and Lorenzo made their way to the front; the beautiful singer and Becchino elected themselves as judges, sitting close to the pair to ensure there was no trickery. Becchino gave Lucia what he must have meant as an encouraging smile, but ended up looking quite frightful on account of his brown and stunted teeth. Maybe he’s not so bad, after all , she thought, but there was no more time to ponder because the contest had begun.

Bertoldo finished his first drink fast, and leered at her. Lucia did her best to go hurriedly, but she was not used to large sips and also had to take care not to swallow the amethyst. Nevertheless, soon she, too, set down her empty cup to be refilled. Cheers were cheered. Coins were exchanged. Seven, eight, nine, a dozen (two dozen?) pours until Bertoldo’s crass taunts became mumbled nothings.

At last, after calling Lucia a “something, something” (nobody could quite hear), he leaned back too far, his bench flipped over, and he lay ruddy-faced on the floor while Lucia remained white and upright and every bit a lady. The whole room erupted in cheers and laughter, and she was hugged and kissed and slapped on the back, for never had anyone been able to outdrink Bertoldo (not that anyone was trying).

“Lucia!” exclaimed Maria, pushing her way to her side. “A woman of your size! How did you do that?”

“Like this!” she said, swept up in her triumph. She picked up a last ceremonial glass of wine, draining it for effect. Oh, fateful moment! In her confidence she forgot carefulness and swallowed the gem that kept her safe from the alcohol’s effects. Instantly, every single drop she’d imbibed rushed through her veins. The room reeled, she clutched her hand to her face, willing herself not to vomit.

“Alright, darling,” said Maria, watching her sway, “you’ve proved your point, let’s get you home.”

“Can’t we just put her in some corner?” said Lorenzo, eyeing the food.

“No. Bertoldo isn’t the only pervert in the room, and I don’t want to be standing guard all night. Here, love, drink up this wine, we’ll make our journey more merry.”

“But the feast—” objected Lorenzo.

“Will be here when we return,” said Maria. “Look at the pig—it’s still hours from cooked.”

Lorenzo filled his pockets with cheese just in case. Maria put her arm around one side of Lucia, and Lorenzo around the other, and they walked her out the front door, grabbing a lit torch from the entryway.

“Right. Which way to your bed, darling? Lucia? Hey! Focus. Which way?”

They shook her until she nodded vaguely toward a street that exited the little piazza in front of the grand home. Even sober, she wouldn’t know the way back. She hardly ever came to Oltre Arno, and hadn’t been paying attention when they left Alle Panche. To complicate things, the thunderstorms anticipated the day before were gathering, the already moonless night made blacker by clouds. But Maria and Lorenzo dutifully guided her in the direction of her nod, laughing and joking and recalling Bertoldo’s stupid face to cheer her up.